


Ichaer

by softestpunk



Series: (Witcher) Christmas Kisses [12]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Kissing, M/M, this is uh a little more intense than previous fics in this series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: After thinking Ciaran lost, Iorveth finds him again.





	Ichaer

**Author's Note:**

> Me at the beginning of this self-challenge: I won't repeat pairings
> 
> Me now: ELVES 😍😍😍
> 
> (They're Christmassy okay?)

“Where’s Ciaran?” Iorveth asked to a round of shrugs, his men too busy securing their hard-won cargo from the ambush to care about one of their number missing.

Heart in his throat, Iorveth ducked into the thick woods, remembering some of the caravan’s guards heading that way, perhaps in search of one particular elf who’d caught them on the wrong foot and fled.

The sound of a death rattle stopped Iorveth in his tracks, his blood going cold, rushing in his ears.

The moment he turned, though, relief flooded him.

Ciaran stood bloodied and bruised, his chest heaving with every breath, his weight leaning against the broad tree trunk behind him.

Two soldiers dead at his feet, and a dagger in his hand.

The other elf looked up, his eyes meeting Iorveth’s, pulling him in. An irresistible siren call, as always.

“You’re alive,” Ciaran murmured, his eyes gaze softening as Iorveth approached. “I thought… I thought I saw…”

“Shh,” Iorveth murmured, reaching out to stroke Ciaran’s cheek. “I worried about you, as well.”

And he shouldn’t have, and he couldn’t afford to, and it was  _ dangerous _ . Dangerous to care about  _ this _ elf above all others, dangerous to think of him before, during, and after battle.

The sound of the dagger falling filled Iorveth’s ears. He reached out, linking his fingers with Ciaran’s newly-empty hand, the sticky film of blood adhering them together.

Iorveth surged forward, catching Ciaran’s lips and moaning into his mouth, catching the trickle of blood spilling from it with his tongue and tasting copper and home,  _ ichaer, _ their shared history, the thrumming bond between them that was at once ethereal and earthen.

Ciaran hissed under him, his response as eager as Iorveth had hoped, searing heat pouring down his throat as he licked the blood of a bitten cheek out of Ciaran’s mouth and pressed their bodies together, desperate to feel Ciaran against him and know he was there.

Iorveth held the words of love and devotion swelling in his chest behind his teeth, leaving Ciaran that one small mercy. The last thing this young, beautiful elf needed was the burden of being loved by someone like him.

Instead he trailed his hand down, brushing the tips of his fingers over the sensitive heat of Ciaran, offering release and expecting nothing in return, and Ciaran accepted with an eager moan and pushed more of his blood into Iorveth’s mouth as his back arched, taught as a bowstring, and he reached out to touch, and Iorveth broke, and fell, crashing into Ciaran’s warmth, and blood, and trust.

In the aftermath he pulled Ciaran close to his chest, drawing him into the home carved out under his ribcage, and made silent promises he knew this war would force him to break.

Ciaran breathed steadily, and that was enough.   
  



End file.
